Off The Cuff
by DarkSlayer84
Summary: Grab bag of Devil's Nest crew ficlets. Mostly Greed, mostly SLASH, odd bits of gen and het. Ratings and pairs inside.
1. Agreements

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. It was created by Arakawa Hiromu. I'm not making a profit. This ficlet is PG-13, or K, or whatever that ridiculous rating system is, and also GreedxKimbley. Yay.

**Notes:** Anime canon unless otherwise noted on the individual ficlets. They're probably AU.

_**Off The Cuff**_

DarkSlayer84

_I: Agreements_

"I'll give you another forty sen," said Greed, "if you take it off."

"Like hell." Kimbley was dead set on being stubborn. His stomach had other ideas; it snarled like a starved animal, so loud that their only customer of the evening sat straighter on the barstool and pretended he hadn't heard. "No fucking way."

That made Greed chuckle.

"Sure." He sat back, not a care in the world as he laced his hands behind his head. All kinds of hunger were useful to him. "Tell you what," he said, gently, razors in his smile. "Let me buy you dinner."

"I hate you." Kimbley's voice was flat, eyes dull and unfocused as his fingers slunk to the collar of his shirt and settled on the pinstriped tie Greed had bought him yesterday.

"I know," said Greed, sitting forward as the silk unwound in Kimbley's hands and slithered free. "Look this way," he purred, grinning, "_look at me_, and you can have dessert."

-END-


	2. Loyalties

**Disclaimer and Notes:** Anime 'verse, PG-13. GreedxKimbley. FMA still doesn't belong to me--it's Arakawa Hiromu's. I'm just borrowing it.

_**Off The Cuff**_

DarkSlayer84

_II: Loyalties_

"You miss it, don't you?" Greed wants to laugh. His alchemist is wonderful, uncomplicated and starved and compelling. "The military."

"No." The word is as inconsequential as it is resolute--breathy, but absolutely firm.

"Oh?" Greed slithers lower down and slowly closes his fist. "No _what_?"

Kimbley exhales, ignores his body and Greed's hand and focuses on the elements around him. His palms tingle against the bar--ethanol, nicotine, saline, traces of nitric and hydrochloric acids.

There aren't enough components. He can't even manage a decent firecracker in this dump.

The homunculus has a hell of a grip.

"No, Sir."

-END-


	3. Nocturne

**Notes:** Anime 'verse, PG-13. A Greed-centric gen bit, featuring his past and crew. Special guest appearance by Roy Mustang! Blink and miss him. XD

_**Off The Cuff**_

DarkSlayer84

_III: Nocturne_

The windows are waxed paper. Greed tore his out, first thing; he'll never again go without fresh air and the clear, wistful scent of seasons changing--he can tell, even over the sewage and rot of the neighborhood. Filth doesn't bother him.

Moonlight makes a blinding crescent across the head of his bed. Plain white sheets are easiest to steal. He used to have silk. He will again. Soon. Black, claret, navy; some color that absorbs light and gleams.

These linens are rough and blatant, headlights instead of gaslight.

He twitches inside when he sees automobiles--only the military can afford them. He still half-regrets last week's jaunt to the classy side of town. He'd dressed up for the occasion, put aside his bangles and vest for a suit and some hair oil. He refused to surrender the boots. He was no Envy--no new face for him--but Martel said he "cleaned up well". He'd found that hilarious. She'd never seen him in a tricorn hat; he missed them. And fustian breeches. He got himself a lot of ass wearing those, male and female.

He missed a lot of things.

He'd be glad when cars finally went out of fashion. He'd been walking down the middle of the street. Of course. It was a good idea to keep clear of people's upper-story windows. He found it odd when he'd reached the end of the avenue and not once heard a warning shout and splash of emptied chamber pots. He'd figured the rich had finally developed water closets again, or something close to them.

He'd jumped six feet straight up at the sounding of the horn of that _thing_. It did not look like fun. He didn't want to try it, no matter how pretty the soldiers behind the driver were, an adorable blonde statue and her dark-haired sculptor. That one had smirked at him in passing, his brown eyes gleaming; the question was rounded and smooth and a little too slick from his lips. He'd had white even teeth and white gloves. Greed could feel the array there before he saw it and flinched back from the door, smiling, bowing to cover his agitation and wishing like hell that he'd worn his dark glasses.

No, thank you, Sir, he absolutely did not want a ride anywhere an alchemist could take him.

Greed was positive he did not want to own one--a car. He already had an alchemist. He had no use for a car. Well, maybe. In another fifty years or so, when they were more commonplace and his people needed some help getting around. He'd be used to them, both cars and his crew, and he wouldn't give either of them up.

Even if Dorochet was still teasing him about it by then.

Greed scrunched up against the wall in the top corner of the king sized mattress. He wasn't used to all the space, though he wanted it, craved it, and had been delighted to have it. He could move again. It felt odd. He rolled over with a sigh and stared at the ceiling.

He didn't sleep much. He'd spent far too long doing that already, dozing forever in a hole in the ground. But there was a luxurious feeling to uncoiling and lying still in a soft, safe place with his eyes closed. He spent his days staring and wide-eyed, hungry for motion, for shadows and color and light. It was nice to rest every so often.

He didn't pile up with the chimeras all the time anymore. He had at first. He kept his belongings close, his treasures closer. He wanted them right where he was. Constantly. They'd never said anything, but he knew he hogged the covers and kicked in his sleep. Pack animals shared everything, and when it got down to it, he just wasn't the sharing type.

It was wonderful to breathe with them, lean against them, feel the way Martel and Loa both slunk up to him for warmth. He'd spent hours watching Dorochet's hands paddle at nothing; he'd reached over to stroke the swordsman's hair whenever he frowned or whimpered.

That was the purpose of this bed. He still had to find a way to break it to them. It was _okay_ to sleep on his furniture, as long as he was sleeping there, too. And he'd have to tell them without insulting their human dignity. Soldiers, even ex-soldiers, had altogether too much dignity. Greed drowsily wondered how in hell Pride kept his under control.

It was damned chilly in here alone with his rough sheets and the windows open.

He flopped over on one side and built a barricade of pillows around the headboard, the wall, and his back--a shallow nest to hold the heat in. Martel would approve. If she were here.

Greed turned over, propped up on the edge of the pillows so he could see out the window.

He stretched out and waited for the sun to come up.

-END-


	4. Mr Self Destruct

**Notes:** First-anime-verse past fic. One of Greed's many awakenings. PG-13.

_**Off The Cuff**_

DarkSlayer84

_IV: Mr. Self-Destruct_

The first thing he knows is hunger. He doesn't have a name for it, yet-he can't speak and all his effort is focused on that need, hot and sharp. The pain and cold and light hit him next, and he wants darkness and warmth and relief. He has eyes, can feel them aching, drilled down by the light, but he can't see. The room spins, fuzzy, jagged outlines careening in and out of half-focus, and he wants to get a better look.

Want is fast becoming his anchor, his way of making sense of the world.

"He doesn't look like much." It's a high, thready funeral croak that hits him with a bolt of desire, of wanting to remember, wanting to know, but he can't see.

"Now, now, Envy; that's no way to treat your brother."

"That piece of shit is inot/i my brother."

The words hurt. He's not sure why, but it makes sense, in a way: everything hurts. He'd like to say something back but all that happens is a wet, guttural squelch, heavy and red.

There's a murmured word of power and Greed writhes on the floor, wrapped in lightning, screaming to end the world-a hard wet stutter that won't stop. He wants it to stop. He wants out, he wants to tear free, to rend and kill and rip out the thing that's causing him so much pain.

He wants his fucking body back.


End file.
